


Safehouse VI

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Series: Safehouse [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agender Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel in Panties, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Corsetry, Crowley in a fan laced corset, Dirty Talk, Dom Castiel, Gentle Kissing, Grace Bondage, Grace-Powered Orgasms, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Metaphysical Sex, Overstimulation, Past Crowley/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Soft Cock Kink, Sub Crowley, Talking about boys, Trust, Trust Kink, coming whilst soft, crowstiel, is my actual sexuality, look at their fucking love connection, masochist crowley, men in lingerie, mentioned potential Dean/Castiel, mentioned potential Dean/Castiel/Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: Crowley calls Castiel to the safehouse again, to test the boundaries of trust and compromise.ORCas and Crowley dress up in frilly underwear and roll around on a bed making out and talking about boys. Who needs plot anyway.





	Safehouse VI

He feels the soft, insistent tug at his subconscious before he even hears his message tone. Castiel fishes in the pocket of his slacks, retrieves his phone. The text reads "You are cordially invited to my bed. Now. Wear something pretty. Xoxox"  
  
"Who is it?" The voice comes out of nowhere. Castiel looks up, startled. "Is it Crowley?"  
"Sam. My apologies, I didn't think anyone else was awake."  
Sam shrugs. "Couldn't sleep. It is Crowley, isn't it?"  
Reluctantly, Castiel nods. The Winchesters still have not made any sort of peace with the idea of it, this detente between himself and Crowley.  
Sam mirrors the nod. Wraps his arms around himself, and for such a tall man he seems remarkably small tonight. "You should go. I'll explain to Dean."  
"You don't have to do that."  
"I know." Sam smiles, and it is exhausted but genuine. Castiel allows himself a moment of concern, before another needy tug at the link between him and Crowley coaxes his attention away. "Go on. Just... don't be away too long, okay? He worries."  
Castiel cannot make any promises, and so he says nothing. Merely disappears, winging his way to the safehouse.  
  
It's rare that he's not aware of Crowley these days. Of the background itch of his presence that Castiel has grown so accustomed to that he's not sure if he enjoys it or it's just so familiar as to be almost a part of him. And sometimes - often - Crowley tugs a little more purposefully on the ties that bind them. Sometimes - more often than Castiel would have expected - he actually texts or calls. Not as frequently as Dean, but certainly more _specifically_. Often Castiel is too busy and ignores him. Sometimes, he doesn't.  
  
He's accustomed to arriving inside the house now, but this is the first time he's flown straight to Crowley's bedroom and he wonders briefly if he's interpreted the message correctly. He needn't worry. When he arrives in a gentle flurry of air, Crowley is already lying on the bed, watching him with his vessel's lazy amber eyes. Suddenly self-conscious, Castiel remembers Crowley's instruction to wear something _pretty_. He looks down at himself. He thinks that this will fail to qualify - certainly in comparison with what Crowley is wearing.  
Crowley clicks his tongue, softly and rolls over on the bed. It's abundantly clear he's not remotely cross that Castiel failed to comply with instructions, but perhaps he'll pretend to be. "I'll accept 'naked' if you're very nice to me, but I'm absolutely not allowing that Target rag anywhere near my bed." Castiel glances down at his coat. He senses that it would be futile to point out that he didn't purchase it at Target. He raises his eyes to Crowley again.  
Crowley is wearing layers, but even the sum of them fails to conceal the lines and curves of his vessel. The topmost is a gown, a little like a kimono, deep red and diaphanous as Crowley's smoke form. Beneath it, Castiel glimpses sheer structured things. Straps and laces and ruffles, all in the palest shade of ivory.  
Castiel blinks, and stretches out his power just enough to remove the familiar (to Sam and Dean) clothes from his body. He's not even sure where he sends them - all his attention is on the demon in the bed. "Would you like me to wear something..." he gestures at Crowley's vessel. _Something pretty_. It wouldn't be beyond Castiel to call something up, or to fetch something from the drawer of treasures Crowley has set aside for him in the other room. He feels no self-consciousness at his nudity, but he wants to please Crowley. Always. Wants to make him shiver with want, as Castiel does when he looks at him.  
Crowley's eyes don't leave him as Crowley reaches back, slips a hand beneath one of the deep, white pillows. He retrieves something, a lustrous scrap, the pale grey-lilac of the insides of seashells. Ribbon trails as he holds it up. His voice curls low and hot as sinking smoke. "Come here."  
Castiel feels Crowley _pull_ at him, invisibly, and doesn't even try to fight it. He climbs up onto Crowley's bed, the sheets soft as air, and crawls up to him. They hold unblinking eye contact with each other. The scrap of fabric is beautiful, pale and pretty. Castiel wants to touch it, but when he reaches out Crowley holds it back out of reach with a teasing grin.  
"On your back, angel." The words are a threat, a promise, a caress.  
Castiel obeys instantly. There was a time, a long time, when the idea of unquestioning obedience to a demon would have been unthinkable to him. The thought of lying spread out beneath one in a human body, human arms loose on the pillow above his head, human legs parted, human sex lying soft and indolent between human thighs. He gazes up at Crowley. Patient and trusting.  
Crowley's smile is soft. Loving. He kneels, takes one of Castiel's feet in his hands. Castiel watches him, quiet and content, draped in his smokescreen of red that is somehow more suggestive than if Crowley's vessel were naked as well. Crowley's knees bent, feet tucked neatly beneath him. His fingers on Castiel are sure, deft, massaging the arch of each foot before he guides first one and then the other into the garment he retrieved from beneath the pillow. "Lift." His voice is so quiet, so firm. Castiel lifts his hips from the red damask throw, closes all of his eyes and wriggles slightly just to feel the way the soft material brushes against the vessel's skin. It's gorgeous. Pure sensation. Castiel already feels drunk on it. He shivers, as if cold, his borrowed skin coming out in goose-bumps. The feeling flickers, like falling dominos, following the path that Crowley drags up Castiel's thighs. When he slides the silky fabric over the curve of Castiel's behind, it feels as though a hand is cupping him, snug and intimate. "Sit up," Crowley instructs.  
"Yes Crowley." The words come out as whispers, all insubstantial. Castiel sits, opening a few eyes but leaving most closed. He reaches for Crowley, wants to touch him, feel the warmth of him through all that red.  
When his fingers tangle with Crowley's, Crowley guides him, raising his arms enough that he can slip a matching scrap of silk over them. It settles across Castiel's chest, insubstantial as sunlight. Castiel looks down. The silk is pearly, just covers his vessel's nipples, held in place by narrow ribbons, tied in a long loose bow at either shoulder.  
He thinks of Crowley's choice of words. Pretty. Castiel _feels_ pretty, in this. When he stretches, his nipples rub lightly against the gauzy fabric. It's an intriguing sensation. When Castiel speaks, his voice is a bit breathless and all he can do is sigh Crowley's name.  
In answer, Crowley pushes him back against the bed again, a hand around each wrist. Crushes their lips together: gentle but firm, just like his murmured instructions. His tongue tests, teasing the seam of Castiel's lips, begging surrender.  
  
There is an almost religious ecstasy to surrendering to Crowley. Castiel lets his lips part, and thinks how blasphemous it is. An angel willingly allowing himself to be violated by a demon - _begging_ for it, making human, needy noises in the back of his throat and letting himself be pinned like a butterfly to the bed.  
Crowley's legs are spread. Straddling his thighs. Usually this would mean Crowley weighing down against him, pressing their vessels together. But not now. They're joined only by the slow soft movement of lips against lips.  
The delicacy of it suits the softness of their clothing, the way it seems barely-there. Every time Castiel moves he can feel it - nothing like his usual clothes. If he zooms his awareness in, he can feel each small fibre touching him gently, like Crowley's fingers stroking his wrists, or his tongue meeting Castiel's then retreating again flirtatiously.  
It is strangely more intense than nudity. More _conscious_ \- perhaps the new sensations against skin draw his attention to his vessel more than usual. Perhaps Crowley's unfamiliar appearance, the way he feels to touch right now, draws that attention too. The connection between them flutters, like a pennant in a breeze, all airy ripples.  
"I'd never kissed anyone," Castiel confesses, in the space between one brush of lips and the next, "before I kissed you."  
"Start at the top, darling." Crowley's lips rub against his, pliant and decadent. "And since you first kissed me?"  
"I can't remember," Castiel lies. "I don't care." He surges up against Crowley's mouth and Crowley looses an indulgent moan, opening wider, coaxing Castiel's tongue into his mouth and sucking on it, gentle and wet. One hand moves from Castiel's wrist, palm warm through thin fabric as he maps the curve of Castiel's ribs. "Shame. I'd like to watch. But only if I could join in."  
Castiel feels something in his true body heat up to burning at the thought. It crackles under the skin, and he sees Crowley's eyes widen in response to it. "Who would you like to see me kiss?"  
Crowley leans in, taking his mouth once more. The demon is hungry, all lazy-indulgent desire. When he pulls back, his voice is velvet-rough. "Your Winchester springs to mind. I'd like to be one with you. Snuggle up close in that lovely vessel of yours while he gives it a thorough tune-up and oil check."  
Castiel closes his eyes. Hides his face in the crook of Crowley's neck. The thought of sharing that sort of intimacy with Dean is... complicated. Difficult to even let himself think about. Castiel has spent so long not letting himself think it. He knows Crowley can read at least some of what he's feeling by the way he chuckles, low and throaty, and the connection between them is full of fondness and indulgence. He wonders if Crowley can understand what he's feeling better than Castiel can - he has so much more experience of these things. Castiel doesn't know why the thought makes him ache inside like he's empty. Makes his skin buzz. "Did you kiss him?" he asks, so quietly he's not sure if Crowley hears it. He can picture it so clearly, the way the two of them would kiss each other. He feels a tide of helpless arousal at the thought.  
"Oh, yes." A murmur against his hair. Crowley's hands at his waist turn him, coax him into position so they're both lying on their sides, facing, no space between them. The bed beneath them seems to mould to Castiel's form, firm but yielding. He feels like he's sinking into it. Falling. "But not often." Crowley's lips brush his, the barest shiver of a touch. "And not like this." One thumb slides, just barely beneath the hem of Castiel's chemise, skating skin. "How would you kiss him, angel? Show me."  
Castiel can't help but picture it - Dean's face, his expression softening in a way it never has for Castiel before, his body, his hands warm and steady, his mouth... feeling breathless in ways that make no physical sense, Castiel touches his mouth to Crowley's. Hesitant. Oddly shy. He feels one hand wind, softly, into his hair. Too big to be Dean. The scratch of beard too long, delicate lips too thin. It doesn't matter. Crowley sighs against his mouth, sweet and soft. Gives him time. Allows Castiel to set the pace.  
Castiel feels very small, all of a sudden. It's a strange, unfamiliar feeling. He feels awkward, inexperienced - shy, as if Crowley might turn and laugh at him for this. He tries to push the feeling away. As he kisses Crowley's cheek, his jawline, then again his mouth, he realises his vessel is trembling.  
Crowley's hands are steady, but he feels... hesitant. Every movement syrupy slow and sweet. His lips part beneath Castiel's so tenderly. And Castiel is thinking of it, the seed that Crowley coaxed to blossom in his imagination: kissing Dean Winchester. But every evidence of his senses is full of demon.  
"What a lucky boy he is," Crowley whispers. "Or could be, rather, if he'd just get over himself."  
Dean has never been so careful with Castiel, but it's a pleasant fantasy that one day he might be. Castiel lingers in the thought, his lips mere millimetres from Crowley's. "Show me how he kissed you?" he begs, staring at Crowley's kiss-pink mouth. "Show me..."  
The sleek arches of Crowley's eyebrows crease, briefly, in a little frown. His gaze fixed on Castiel's mouth in turn, aching. Then he blinks and his eyes flood red and Castiel registers the hand fisting roughly in his hair half a breath before Crowley's lips are crushing his, hard and greedy, all lust and dominance and simmering violence.  
Castiel _groans_ helplessly, squirming against Crowley, pressing into him on pure instinct. It seems like every time they're together, Castiel discovers more about what it means to be sexual, to be physical. Crowley tastes red. Like blood and fire. Castiel opens for him, lets him in and Crowley _takes_. Joins them forcefully, patient finesse gone. His tongue pushes, wet and insistent, exploring Castiel's mouth. Draws Castiel's tongue between his teeth, sucking on it. It's overwhelming. Hard. Scrape of coarse hair and edge of sharp teeth and Castiel feels strangely disconnected, his hands seeking the soft red drape of Crowley's gown to ground him in the now. This is how demons kiss each other, he thinks. It's too much, suddenly, and he pulls back. Uses angelic strength to put a little distance between them until his head has stopped spinning. His hands are still clenched in Crowley's red gown - he loosens his grip slowly, but keeps them there.  
Crowley exhales, a long quiet breath. The backs of fingers stroke Castiel's cheek, careful again. His voice is a husky whisper, "You asked, love." Between them, their connection is... complicated. Crowley radiates desire, regret, longing, sorrow. He dips his chin and noses at Castiel's cheek, questioning, his lips parting.  
Castiel catches Crowley's mouth again, once, in a kiss that is brief and gentle but in no way chaste. "I did," he says. "I wanted to know." He thinks it would be fascinating to see it, Dean and Crowley. To watch them battling each other like that, all lust and aggression. Fascinating and terrifying. And beautiful.  
"He'd be different with you." It feels strangely like Crowley is asking forgiveness. "You're his darling." A little flash of bitterness, such a familiar stab between them. Crowley's vessel pushes against him, lush and warm, wrapped up like a gift in its layers of lacing. Soft. Castiel realises that despite his peaking arousal, Crowley's penis is not erect. He reaches down to touch it with his hands, to cup and fondle it curiously. "Do you not like this?" he asks. "Usually your vessel responds, here, when I touch it." _Am I not your darling, too?_ he thinks, but does not say.  
Crowley's eyes slit closed, lashes fluttering, his mouth slightly open. His hips rock, just barely, into Castiel's gentle grasp. "You like it soft."  
Castiel tilts his head. "So this is for me?" The thought pleases him. He squeezes Crowley's penis lovingly and Crowley chokes back a little gasp. "Well believe me, darling - you in my bed, looking like this; my little soldier isn't sleeping by accident."  
Castiel tilts his head. Draws back a little to study Crowley's attire more carefully. Beneath a sheer stretch of pale chiffon, Crowley's genitals are nestled, fat and soft. The edges of his panties are framed by rows of little ruffles that do nothing to actually cover his modesty. From what Castiel can feel, the ruffles extend around the back, too, cupping the pert swell of Crowley's backside. Over the panties, he appears to be wearing a corset, containing and restraining the wide curve of his waist, stretching down past his hips and reaching up to just below his nipples. It’s patterned with tiny floral sprigs, all the same shade of ivory damask, and it's not laced like anything Castiel has seen before - or indeed worn, long ago, in a female vessel. A complicated lattice of lacing spreads out in three wide fans secured by six little silver clips. Similar clips secure the deep lace tops of the stockings that fasten with six garters on each, to the lower edge of the corset. It's stunningly intricate, and reminds Castiel of wings. He can't stop himself from touching, running his open palms all over Crowley's beautifully-wrapped body. "I like it," he says. "I like you soft."  
Everything about Crowley is soft, like this. He bends to Castiel's touch, pressing into it, eyes half-lidded. Their grace-connection throbs. Castiel can feel it, hot. The heat of Crowley's covetous, possessive desire. Castiel's fingertips skim a nipple and Crowley hisses a sharp inhale: it's taking a lot of willpower over his vessel for him to remain so meek. As if reading Castiel's thoughts he says, "it's a new kind of restraint for me, darling. It's... interesting."  
Interesting. Castiel probes at him, invisibly, with his grace. Crowley is ripe with arousal, like something budding, in a state of sexual readiness that Castiel wants to dissect and examine. Yet his vessel remains perfectly flaccid beneath the intricate clothing. It's gorgeous. "Would you like me to restrain you, instead? I could make it impossible for you to attain erection." He pets Crowley's cock like he would a lazy cat. "You wouldn't have to think about it."  
Crowley swallows: thick, heavy. A burst of desire, mixed with a heady kind of frustration, blooms between them. It's so overpowering, the air so charged it's almost static: even a human would surely feel it, here in this room with them. "I'd stay this way for you by my own volition, you know, angel." Crowley's voice rumbles, dark and fascinated. "But... I'll try anything once. Just pinky swear it's not permanent." His smile tips up at one corner.  
"You're the model of self-control," Castiel agrees, and touches his mouth to Crowley's again, briefly. He lays the palm of his hand over Crowley's penis, and it is the work of a moment to reach inside him and take over the job of controlling the vessel's physical responses. He lets Crowley's pupils dilate, lets his breathing deepen, but doesn't allow his body to otherwise respond - doesn't let the heat inside of him reach those pretty genitals. It's perfect. Like he's tying Crowley up inside, not letting him wriggle free.  
  
Crowley groans, deep. His hips lift, the ruffles edging his underwear catching the dim light. His essence is such a delicious cocktail of feeling right now: as his frustration rises, so does his arousal. His satisfaction. "Kiss me. Let me touch you." He's breathless. The sheer stretch of his stockings makes the loveliest little _hiss_ as his legs rub together.  
"Yes, Crowley." Castiel thinks Crowley has never been so _pretty._ He kisses him, and at the same time takes one of Crowley's hands in his own and puts it on his body. He can't imagine Dean touching him like this - with such devotion, such rapture. It's something born of long existence. Of long deprivation. This demon has had centuries of excess to elevate every action to an art form. Centuries in torment to crave and then appreciate. Crowley's hands map and remap Castiel's vessel. Each innocent touch- his shoulders, his ribs- makes every hair on Castiel's vessel shiver to attention: it's chaste, yet strangely, intensely erotic. Castiel wants to have sex with him, to penetrate him and move in him and orgasm in him without ever letting him get hard. He strokes Crowley's cock, slow and curious, enjoying the sounds it draws out of Crowley's throat - as if it hurts him, almost. As if he can hardly bear it.  
"God, Cas..." He writhes against the deep red throw, his gown - just the same shade of red - billowing out around him. Touching ecstasy. Castiel should have known: the things that Crowley values most are those things he can't have. Except... Crowley's lips brand the inside of Castiel's wrist, the sensitive crook of his elbow. Castiel _feels_ valued. "You feel like a dream."  
Castiel knows, now, what dreams feel like. Though he so finds them disorienting, often unsettling. "You feel like smoke," he says, trailing fingers up Crowley's belly, the gentle swell of it confined in the pale corset. "You enjoy restraint," he comments, fingers still on the corset, as if realising it for the first time.  
"I enjoy security," Crowley whispers in reply. His hands cover Castiel's, pressing them to his waist, visibly luxuriating. The pattern of laces feels lovely under Castiel's palms, rough and textured against the sleek-tight smoothness of satin brocade. "Nobody sees this, Cas."  
Castiel squeezes, feels the delicious give of Crowley's flesh beneath the lace and firmness of the corset. "I've seen every part of you." It's a kind of ownership. Crowley has given every secret, hidden part of himself to Castiel.  
"Every part." The words are filled with wonder, realisation. More than a little fear. "I should think myself a fool for giving you... me."  
Castiel rolls them, Crowley onto his back with Castiel over him. He kneels and coaxes Crowley's legs apart. The red gown is spread all about Crowley like long hair fanned on a pillow. "You're not a fool," he murmurs, and bends to delicately brush his lips over Crowley's soft genitals. The connection between them pulses, hot and thick.  
"Angel..." Crowley's voice is thick with lust. His hips lift, uselessly, his prick curled, sleepy, beneath the crisp ruffles of his panties. Crowley's fingertips tighten in the bedding, move to clutch at Castiel's shoulders, combing down over where his wings once manifested, manifested for this demon: Castiel catches a breath. Crowley's hands stroke over his exposed skin, skim his throat and thumb at his nipples through the thin, filmy stuff of his chemise. Desire rolls off him in heady, thwarted waves.  
Castiel extends his tongue and licks Crowley's penis through the sheer fabric. He does it again, makes it wet. Crowley is leaking seminal fluid, it mingles with Castiel's saliva to make a mess of his pretty panties. He can feel Crowley's body straining against his control. It's a very easy thing to hold it back. Crowley is surrendering to him willingly, control not so much taken as given up. "Perfect," Castiel breathes, and moves to kiss Crowley's mouth again, slotting their bodies together so that his own flaccid cock is pressed against Crowley's through twin layers of flimsy net. It is the most distracting sensation to move and feel them rubbing together - the pleasurable ache of it that never quite blooms into what it wants to be. Castiel wonders if he could climax like this. If either of them could. "You're perfect," he tells Crowley, and kisses him again, all gentle and deep, Crowley's legs coming up to cling around his waist as they squirm together on the bed like adolescents.  
He's overwhelmed, out of his depth in unfamiliar sensation: Castiel can feel it and it gives him a strange kind of triumph. To have Crowley hand control to him, over and over again, when Castiel can _feel_ his need for the release that he's so trustingly given up to Castiel. Crowley is breathing, irregular little panting gasps and deep sighs, pressing desperately against him as he laps hungrily at Castiel's mouth.  
Everything is simple here, like this. Easy. Nothing to worry about, nothing to do but trade pleasures with a demon. The minutes seem to slip past like cars on the highway. During a quieter moment, when their kisses have turned slow and sugary, groggy with repressed arousal, Castiel mouths at Crowley's neck with lips numb from kissing. "Do you have others? Other demon lovers?" He knows about the humans already.  
"Now?" Crowley turns his head on the pillows, offering the pale arch of his neck, the secret running stream of his jugular, with eyes closed. "No. I can't trust any demon now. In the past," he shifts under Castiel's quiet attentions, "plenty." His eyes slit open, golden as a cat's. "How about you, love? Who keeps you warm when you're away from me?"  
Castiel shrugs, a small human gesture he's learned to mimic over the last few years. "No one. There's only you." He doesn't mean it possessively, he feels no real jealousy towards Crowley's lovers.  
Crowley smiles, barely. A tiny, secretive little flicker that feigns nonchalance. "Lucky me." His voice is smooth. His essence rolls, full of pleasure. "I'd do well to ensure I keep you extra satisfied then, pet." He holds Castiel's gaze as he stretches, gracefully. The contrast of pale flesh, pale satin, against rich red is aesthetically pleasing. "How can I do that?"  
"It would satisfy me to bring you to orgasm." Castiel slides a finger just under the waistband of Crowley's panties. "Can you do that, like this?" Castiel's grace is still keeping Crowley's penis soft and small, but doesn't limit any of the sensation, doesn't dull it.  
Crowley groans, writhing. Willingly at Castiel's mercy. "Darling, there's only one way to find out." He looks - feels - already high on arousal, his essence saturated, full. Skin flushed: his lips, cheeks, spreading across his chest above the tiny stiff peaks of his nipples. His garter straps dig into the pale curve of his thighs, dark hair swirled flat beneath the shimmering silk of his stockings as his legs shift, restless, against the covers. "Please, angel, touch me."  
Castiel runs the tip of his index finger along Crowley's cock. Bends and puts the flat of his tongue to a pink nipple. Crowley keens at the drag of it. "I could force it from you," Castiel says, hushed, as if sharing a secret. "I'm already exerting control over your body. I could make it happen without so much as touching you." He shifts, so that his thigh is between Crowley's legs, pressed against him. "But I want to touch you." Crowley rocks up against him, and Castiel makes a soft noise of approval. Puts a hand on Crowley's hip, coaxes him to do it again.  
His breath is already coming in soft little panting gasps. Hands clutching at the bedcovers as he rolls his hips up against Castiel's thigh, fluid and rhythmic. The silky fabric of their underwear slides together, a frictionless glide, exquisite sensation, and Crowley is making the most enjoyable noises, his deep voice wavering in needy little moans.  
Castiel is staring in a way that he knows would unsettle most humans. Make them self-conscious, awkward. Crowley is anything but awkward - he's roiling against Castiel, sinful and rhythmic, like he can't stop himself. And Castiel is only encouraging him, slipping a hand under that full backside and coaxing him closer, and he thinks it must ache, all that friction on such a sensitive, helpless area of the body. Crowley is almost sobbing with frustration, with need, and Castiel kisses his soft cheeks one by one, just below his trembling eyelashes. "That's it," he tells him. "You're doing just as I want you to."  
"God, Cas..." It's breath more than words. The thread between them feels wound tight, tensile and quivering fit to snap. " _Please_." More. He doesn't even have to say it: Castiel can feel what he wants, every atom of him straining towards such an elusive prize. His desperation is delicious, has him shuddering and wired, whimpering at every brush of Castiel's fingers, every soft-hard thrust against Castiel's thigh.  
"No." Castiel speaks very gently, but with a firmness that won't be contradicted. "Just this. You can do it, demon, you don't need any more help from me." Still, he grazes his teeth along Crowley's neck. Bites at the soft lobe of his ear. "I want you to work for it, to work hard to give me what I want."  
Crowley's chest vibrates as he gives a shocked little breathless chuckle that interrupts the rhythm of his circling hips. His voice is ragged. "Lord. I've created a monster." He sounds _proud_. Proud, and incredibly turned on.  
Castiel laughs. It's a rare, strange sound. "I've been monstrous for millennia. And I welcome your corruption."  
It seems almost a reflex as Crowley arches up, takes his mouth, desperate and demanding. It's rougher than they've kissed all night, Crowley's tongue thrusting, claiming - then immediately softening, as if remembering himself. Helpless desire. His hands on Castiel's hips slip beneath the storm-coloured silk of his chemise, thumbs stroking lightly at the smooth skin of his waist. One hand wanders to Crowley's own crotch, kneading himself through the ruffled chiffon.  
Castiel openly stares. His eyes roam greedily over Crowley - his flushed face, his throat, his torso in the bondage of the corset, his thick hand pawing at his own crotch.  
"Cas..." That big hand squeezes harder, firm and determined. The effort shows on his face, thrums through him, deep and pure and focused as he grasps at the relief just out of his reach. It's building, inside: Castiel can feel it. Slow and heavy and roaring like a grumbling volcano.  
"That's it," Castiel tells him, and kisses his forehead. "That's perfect." He adores Crowley's willing obedience, how eager he is for direction, how keen to please. "It won't be long now. I can feel it."  
"Touch me..." His tone is a step away from pleading, but he pulls Castiel's hand only to his waist. His chest is heaving now, rising and falling drastically above the fanned strapping of his corset. Castiel trails fingertips through the soft dark hair on Crowley's chest and Crowley whimpers. His hand moves methodically, massaging his soft genitals through their layer of frills.  
He's always wanted to touch Crowley. He's wanted to touch him since before he really knew what such a desire meant, when it only confused him, left him unsettled after every meeting with the demon. He indulges that desire now - feels the warmth of Crowley's body under his hands, the flame-lick of the demon underneath. He coos to it with his grace, running the metaphysical equivalent of fingertips through its hair and Crowley _growls_. His arousal has built to a hot knife-edge of want, painfully pent-up even when experienced second-hand. The way he's touching himself is almost aggressive, desperate tugs and presses of vulnerable flesh, such a contrast to his delicate attire.  
The growl is not a human sound. It's something older than that, something primal. Dangerous. Aggressive. Castiel thinks perhaps a saner being would be frightened by it. He feels for the connection between them. Feels for the place where he has his grace wrapped around Crowley from the inside, the place where he's holding back Crowley's reactions, maintaining control of his body - not letting him get hard, not letting his penis do as it so desperately wants. He touches Crowley there. There where he's all bound up, restrained.  
  
Crowley arches from the bed, reaching blindly for him. His mouth open, all sweet and slack. He spreads his legs, wider, inviting. Begging. "Cas... Just... Let me..." Castiel is almost choked with it, the crushing force of his need for release. "Make me..."  
Crowley isn't even trying to keep him out. He's holding himself so wide open, greedy for it. Castiel barely has to touch him - right there, where he's straining for something just out of reach - to topple him over that cliff edge. He grips Crowley's wrists and drags his hand away from his cock, pins them over his head, forces him to do this without anything obscuring Castiel's view of it. Forces it out of him from the inside, even as Crowley struggles powerlessly in his hold, then goes rigid with a gasp, a rapturous groan. His still-soft genitals twitch, wetness soaking into ivory chiffon. Where they're joined, where Castiel is touching, floods with sensation, excruciatingly sweet: an avalanche.  
It's gorgeous. Like rapture, like communion. It's the closest Castiel has come in a long time to the ecstasy he was created for. The liquid spilling in gentle spurts from the soft, pink cock - the way Crowley's eyes roll, his pulse fluttering visibly at his throat like moths below the skin. Castiel likes it so much that he does it again, instantly, before the first waves of it are really over, without giving Crowley time to pause or adjust to it - makes him orgasm again, pushes it out of him. Makes it last, suspends Crowley there in the moment of climax like a bubble caught in amber. He's never had such exquisite control over another being outside of possession.  
A noise like a sob pushes from Crowley's throat. His vessel is frozen but his essence is thrashing, scrambling frantically for equilibrium as he's besieged by pleasure, surge after surge of it. It lasts minutes. His vessel shuddering. His chest heaving, Crowley gropes for Castiel's hand. Draws it to him, pressing it to the damp chiffon between his thighs with a lovely little whimper. Castiel feels it: the zinging aftershock shivers as he's fondled. He's so wet. Castiel doesn't stop fondling him, even when the whimpers turn pained and shocked. He wants to do it again, over and over, to make Crowley orgasm for hour after prolonged hour, until the pleasure is agony to him. Castiel shudders, and hides his face against Crowley's shoulder. He doesn't move his hand away. "I'm sorry," he says, without really knowing why.  
Crowley pushes against his palm. He's still panting, but he feels calmer. Slowing, coming down. He presses his nose into Castiel's hair, and Castiel feels his whisper. "You'll be the end of me, angel."  
Castiel nods, blindly agreeing. "I want... I want more." He spent so long without any wants of his own, his only wants given to him by superiors, dictated. He feels drunk on it, now. "I want..." He gropes again for the hold he still has on Crowley's body. It's sluggish, now. Slow to respond, struggling limply against Castiel's touch.  
Crowley arches again, beneath him. Hisses in a breath. His essence clings, instinctively, but his vessel shakes, spent. "Cas... I can't..." He cups Castiel's cheek in one hand, turns his head to meet his gaze. "You're too much for me, darling. Later?" His thumb traces the curve of Castiel's cheekbone, encourages him closer so Crowley can press a kiss to his lips.  
Castiel knows without being able to see that his eyes are bluer than human, almost glowing. He closes them, tries to calm himself. Kisses Crowley back, as gently as he's able. "Of course. Forgive me."  
"No apology necessary." Crowley's voice is sleepy, a sated purr. His fingers stroke the nape of Castiel's neck. Soothing. It's almost hypnotic. "Stay?" Crowley wriggles against him, pressing for maximum contact between their vessels. "I'd like..." He pauses, as if catching himself from saying something inappropriate.  
"What would you like?" Castiel takes Crowley's hand and kisses the palm of it. "Anything. Anything under Heaven that I can give you is yours."  
Crowley laughs, softly. _The King of Hell_ , Castiel thinks, _in flagrante with an angel_. He strokes Castiel's cheek for a moment, as if playing for time, then says, quietly, "Undress me and sleep with me. Here, in my bed. Let me hold you."  
It's such a simple request. So easy to give. Castiel kisses Crowley, then strokes a hand down his torso. At his touch, the fastenings of his corset undo themselves. "Yes, Crowley."  
Crowley stretches. Turns, lets Castiel ease the constriction of clothing away from him, pull it from beneath the sheer red gown he still wears. His stockings are rolling down of their own accord. The curve of his hips, his belly, bears the pink imprint of stays. Castiel touches the pink marks with his fingertips. He's staring again. "Thank you, for tonight," he says, very sincerely.  
"Honestly, pet," Crowley murmurs in reply, "I seem to be getting more out of this scenario than you do. But- thanks graciously accepted." Shrugging off his gown, Crowley rolls onto his belly, fluent as poetry. Lifts his hips: Castiel takes the cue and eases damp ruffles down over the curve of his backside, helps Crowley shimmy free of the garment, rolling down each stocking in turn, until Crowley lies naked beneath him.  
Castiel blinks and his own silky chemise vanishes to a little dove grey heap on the floor. He settles against Crowley, and everywhere they touch is warm with the vessel's heat. Crowley is deliciously soft. All rounded curves. Castiel is amazed, still, that he's allowed this, allowed to touch. "You're wrong." Crowley thinks that just because Castiel doesn't always like to orgasm, physically, like Crowley, that their intimacy is unbalanced. That Castiel would want more from it. "What I get from it is harder to observe or quantify, but no less real."  
"Old habits, love." Crowley murmurs. "Very hard to break. I feel what you get from this. I just want to be certain you're... Fulfilled. Here-" He sits, pulls back the deep red of the bedspread from smooth white sheets, eases beneath it. "Will you join me?"  
Castiel nods. "Of course. Anything you want." He means it quite sincerely, and knows Crowley can feel it through the link between them. He would give this demon the key to Heaven, if such a thing were possible. He slips under the bed covers beside Crowley. Feels Crowley press against him, immediately, winding their legs together, draping an arm, heavy and wonderful, across Castiel's waist. They've done this before, held one another's vessels. They've done this after being intimate, even, Crowley dozing in his arms like a human. But this feels different. The sheets covering them, a comfortable warm weight. Crowley's vessel relaxed and steady beside him, the contact between them as calming as a drug.  
  
Castiel doesn't sleep. He lies awake and watches Crowley - the vessel sleeping peacefully, and the demon tossing and turning below the surface as if unable to find any peace even here. Castiel breathes cool divinity onto it, soothing it to rest. He murmurs to it in ancient, long-dead languages. The night passes.

(to be continued…)

**Author's Note:**

> TheFierceBeast wrote Crowley. Smaychel wrote Castiel.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's still reading our utter unabridged self-indulgence (TFB just really, REALLY wanted Crowley in vintage lingerie).
> 
> Regarding Crowley being Castiel's first kiss - in a canonical timeline, it works that Caged Heat (ie sudden interest in porn and that Megstiel kiss) happens just after Safehouse I.


End file.
